


Build You A House From A Broken Home

by orphan_account



Category: Filth (2013), Fish Tank (2009)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Death, Drug Use, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 22:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9093247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It seemed like such a simple case. DI Bruce Robertson would travel to Germany, arrest the ex-boyfriend and then go back to London to receive his promotion and massive pay rise. But there were no warning labels with this case, nothing to say that the suspect was the most handsome and seductive man that Bruce had ever met. Before Bruce knew it, he had made one too many bad decisions and was tumbling deeper and deeper into the fucked up world of Conor O'Reily.





	

Three bodies were laid out on the floor in front of Bruce. The first was a child, a girl no older than eight who had been stabbed pretty cleanly through the chest, the second was an elder girl who was half way along the hallway, several stab wounds to her stomach, and the third a woman who Bruce assumed was their mother. She was lying slumped against the cabinets in the kitchen of the damp council flat, stab wounds covering her torso. Bruce looked at the way that her face was contorted in a sick combination of pain and pleasure, like she had enjoyed the sensation of being stabbed sixteen, seventeen, times. Bruce looked over to his accomplice for the day, PC Walsh, who was still stood in the doorway, eyes wide with shock. 

Walsh was an attractive young woman with long brown hair and a button nose, Bruce would have been lying if he said he didn’t fancy her, but she was only just out of training and therefore far too young for Bruce. At least, that’s what he tried to convince her when she had been flirting with him in the car on the way here. 

“Triple murder, looks like mother and her two children. Mother has… fifteen stab wounds to the chest and one to the throat.” He said, crouching down to have a better look at the body. “There was no sign of forced entry so the victims clearly knew the killer.” He said, looking over to Walsh who was writing this all down in her notebook with shaking hands. “Oh and Walsh.” He said, looking up at her. The woman looked at him with raised eyebrows. “Get a grip.” He smiled and Walsh nodded, looking down at her book.

“Right, yessir.” She said quietly as Bruce looked back at the body, noticing the puncture marks on the crease of her arms and how tiny her pupils were. He looked her over again, noticing the shattered bottle of vodka by her side. He hummed to himself, then standing. “Noticed something, sir?” Walsh asked and Bruce dusted his knees down, looking over at her and shaking his head.

“No, nothing.” He answered, then making his way through the hallway and to the two children. “I’m saying whoever did this is probably an ex-boyfriend or the estranged father of one of these two.” He said, gesturing to the two children. “So get DI Spencer to look them up. You start on the door to doors, see if anyone spotted any odd going ons this morning and I’ll get everything taped up whilst we wait for the forensics lads to get here.” He told Walsh, then leaning against the wall, looking at the scene before them. “You ought to get used to this, kid.” He said, eyes on the youngest child whose rabbit toy was now soaked in blood. “You’ll see a lot worse.” Bruce’s eyes trailed over the hallway, noticing the peeling wallpaper and then cigarette butts that were ground into the carpet. Really, it was no different to Bruce’s home, apart from the fact it was far smaller and he would never dare keep it in that state if he had children living in it. 

Bruce hadn’t seen Stacey in almost two years now, Carole having refused to let him see her after their divorce, but he tried to not let it bother him. His girl would be the same age as the girl laying before him, and he highly doubted that Stacey would want to see him now. She was probably happy with her new stepfather. She didn’t need Bruce, didn’t want Bruce, which was fine. His marriage falling apart was all his fault, something that Carole had told him repeatedly. He was away too much and fucked up too much, took too many drugs and drank too much, not to mention the bipolar. He had tried to act like it hadn’t bothered him, that he was doing just fine on his own but really, it was a totally different story and he was barely coping. He just tried to busy himself with work to keep himself distracted, knowing that if he was idle for too long he would self destruct again. Last time, the scarf had untied itself and falling from the beam in the ceiling. Turns out he had had a lucky escape as he had been promoted from constable to sergeant the next day.

“Sir?” Walsh said quietly, having noticed how stiff and distant her boss for the day had become. “Are you okay?” Bruce turned to look at her and nodded, then pushing off the wall and coming back down to Earth with a thud. 

“Didn’t I give you a job to do?” Bruce asked the young brunette who then nodded and scuttered off, leaving Bruce along with the three bodies. He cracked his knuckles and got to work, taping up the short stretch of walkway between the stairwell and the flat’s front door, his glance lingering on Walsh as she spoke to someone down the hall, her face bright was happiness and confidence as she chatted to the man. Bruce had been like that once, loving his job and enjoying every little detail that came with it, but now he woke up every morning and pulled the covers back over himself, seeing his job as a major inconvenience rather than something he was passionate about like it had been ten years before. But that was before the heroin and the vodka and the fucking divorce. 

He busied about for a little while, doing all he could before the photographers arrived. That involved having a look around for possible suspects and anything about the three that could serve as a reason for them to have been killed. He ended up bagging up some photos and drug paraphernalia that he had discovered on the bathroom counter. His body had twitched at the sight of the little bag of cocaine, but he wasn’t sure if that was because he wanted to take it, or if he was just angry that it was in a house with a little kid in. Either way, he slipped it into his pocket rather than the evidence bag that already had a few grams of coke in. No one would notice, and no one would mind. 

Bruce and Walsh left once the rest of the team had arrived. They went via the station, dropping off the statements and evidence, and then went back out on the prowl. They drove through central Romford for a while before settling by the docks, waiting for a call. Bruce was getting twitchy already, the line he had had in the bathroom at the station already wearing off. Walsh sat looking out of the window and to the boats that were coming in and out of the port, traffic busying past their car and the world going by as normal.

“How old were you when you got divorced?” Walsh asked after ten minutes of silence, the radio buzzing with static and leaving the car less awkward. Bruce looked over at her with a frown, squinting as their eyes met.

“I was 35.” He answered, voice monotone and attempting to not show off his discomfort at the question. “And got married when I was 24.” He added, then looking back out the window. “Just didn’t work out, I guess.” He said quietly. Walsh instantly felt a bit guilty for asking the question, but just wanted to get to know Bruce a little better.

“Sorry.” She said quietly, looking over at Bruce with concerned eyes. “It was insensitive of me to ask.” Bruce hummed in agreement and then looked back at her, running his hands over the steering wheel. “Just, I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend so everything is a bit all over the place.” She added, looking over at Bruce and placing her hand on his thigh, sighing. “How did you manage it? The divorce.” She asked quietly and Bruce looked back at her, his hand now placed on top of hers. 

“I had a lot of sex, drank a lot and was depressed for quite a while.” He answered, thumb running over her knuckles. “It helped.” He told her, eyes running up her slender arm and then to her face. “You should try it.” He suggested and Walsh nodded with a smile, then leaning forward so that the two were far too close for what even Bruce would call orderly conduct. 

“Oh I will,” She whispered, giving Bruce’s inner thigh a squeeze, Bruce shutting his eyes at the sensation. “Sergeant Robertson.” The man swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing slowly as Walsh pulled away and looked him up and down. She hummed a laugh and then looked back out the window, taking her hand away. Bruce opened his eyes and looked back out the windscreen, eyes gazing over to one of the large ships that had just docked. His mind was pulsing with electricity, skin covered in goosebumps from Walsh’s tone and trousers tight on his crotch. “Fancy coming back to mine?” 

Bruce started the car.

\---

“Our main suspect at the moment is Conor O’Reily. He’s 38, from Ireland and yesterday evening took a plane from Heathrow to Cologne. He was dating Joanne Williams for three months, the pair split at the end of May according to Ms Williams’ Facebook.” Bruce looked down at the A4 photo in front of him. The man was attractive, he had an angled jaw, dark green eyes and long ginger hair that was very messy and hung over his forehead. “He’s married and has a daughter, Keira. She's only five.” He said, like Bruce was meant to feel sympathetic for the child. Instead, he picked up the file and flicked through it, seeing several photos of Conor at the airport which were taken from a CCTV camera, and a few more of him with friends in photos that had been taken at what seemed to be a Christmas party. 

“What do you want me to do about it?” Bruce asked, looking over the top of the file to Inspector Gillman who was now leant back in his chair, holding out an envelope for Bruce to take. 

“You're going to Germany, Robertson. Have fun.” 

\---

Conor had booked himself into a B&B on the outskirts of central Cologne. The room he was in was tiny, consisting of only a bed, cabinet and small bathroom. But still, it was just a layover until he could get back home to Heidelberg where his parents were. Conor had ditched his name and stupid Irish accent, instead slipping back into his normal German accent and becoming Conor Roth again. He, thankfully, still had his German passport and was able to get from London to Cologne without a problem. He didn't want to go all the way to Heidelberg in fear that he would be met at the airport by the Bundespolizei and would be sent straight back to London for questioning. He would lay low in Cologne for a while, get his bearings, and then catch the train home.

He stood looking out of the window for a while once he woke up the next morning. The sun was bright in the sky and the streets were already crammed with tourists who were bustling about and trying to find the cathedral or world famous chocolate museum. The people all looked lost, wandering around with their maps and gimmicky ‘I heart Deutschland’ baseball caps and t-shirts. If anything, it angered Conor to see his precious homeland turn into a tourist factory, churning out shitty merchandise for the Americans and Eurovision entrants just to please the Brits. It was something Conor wished he could change, that he could speak to Merkel and give her a piece of his mind about what he had done to his precious Germany.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Roth.” Conor looked over to the little old woman who was entering his room, a smile on her face and pot of tea and cup in her hands. “Hast Du gut geschlafen?” She questioned as Conor stood, going to take the mug and teapot from her before she dropped them. The woman, Frau Klein, reminded him of his own mother and was already making his experience in Cologne very pleasant. He poured himself a cup of tea and brought the lip of the cup to his lips.

“Ja, Danke.” He said as the woman nodded and gave him a smile before tottering off and shutting the door behind her. Conor went back to his seat on the windowsill and continued to gaze out into the nothingness, eyes lingering on a pale man who was looking back at him. He raised his hand in a little salute and then disappeared back into the crowd before Conor could give him a nod of acknowledgement. He tried to find the man in the crowd but he was gone, never for Conor to see him again.

That was until 12 hours later when Conor was sat in the pub watching the football with a man that he had met earlier in the night, the two men talking about the match between England and Malta. Bruce had slipped in and gone to the bar just after Conor had returned from his day out in the town and had been watching him from his stool ever since, focusing on the way that the ginger man laughed and joked with the other German, the two sat far too close to each other for Bruce to deem it friendly. Whilst the Scot wasn’t particularly phased by homosexuality, the feeling in his gut was something he had never experienced before. It was like some sort of sick arousal that Bruce was already trying to fight off, knowing that the man he was watching was a murderer, not just another attractive man that he could possibly fuck. Plus Conor probably wasn’t into him, few people were.

Little did Bruce know, Conor had found his eyes regularly wandering over to the ginger officer, still finding it so odd that he had seen him that morning and was now sat only a few feet away from him. Once he had finished talking to Stefan he would go and speak to the mysterious ginger, just to see if it was a total coincidence that the two had seen each other earlier in the day. Conor knew that he had to be careful, just in case the man was following him or something. He doubted it, but there was still the tiny possibility. 

Bruce saw his opportunity just after midnight. The man Conor had been talking to was now gone, having popped to the bathroom, leaving the other man on his own, looking at the television with tired eyes as he finished his third, maybe fourth, bottle of beer. The Scot stood from his stool by the bar and went over to Conor, sitting down beside him on the sofa and crossing his legs, then looking up at the other man who was already looking back at him. 

“You enjoying the game?” Bruce asked, nodding over to the muted television on the wall. “Not been a bad one this.” He added and Conor hummed, waving to one of the waitresses for another glass of beer. 

“Was pretty good all things considered.” He answered, looking over to the television. “Two nil, no real surprises there.” He chuckled and then placed his arms around the back of the sofa, yawning tiredly and letting his head roll back as he sighed. “You’re no from round here, are you?” He asked, looking over to Bruce who was smiling at him.

“Neither are you.” He said and Conor chuckled, smiling at him tiredly. Glasgow, then Edinburgh and now London. Just over here on holiday.” Bruce answered with a smile, gladly accepting the warm that was practically wrapped around him. “Though my hotel is on the other side of town and the trams are all down as there's been some disruption in the city.” He lied, sighing sadly. Conor perked up, giving him a smile. “I’m Bruce.”

“Well I'm sleeping here, you know that.” The German informed his companion with a grin. “Come stay with me for the night, there's enough room for a skinny thing like you, Bruce. Conor, pleased to meet you.” He grinned, looking over to Stefan who was picking his coat up from the chair opposite the sofa, jaw locked and eyes on Conor. “Hey, mein Freund.” Conor said, reaching over and taking his wrist in his hand. “Bitte, bleiben Sie die Nacht zu.” He said softly and Stefan looked at the new man, giving him a smile. 

“Nur wenn er drin ist.” He said and Conor looked over to Bruce who was looking at the pair with a furrowed brow, annoyed that he couldn't understand what the two were saying. It was alright deploying him to Germany, he loved the scenery, but he couldn't speak a word of german. Stefan leant forward to give Conor a quick kiss and then looked over to Bruce. “Come?” He asked as Conor also stood and looked down at Bruce. “Or not your thing?” He added and it then clicked. Bruce raised an eyebrow and then stood too, looking Conor up and down with a grin.

“Oh no, lead the way.” He said, Conor smiling at him then following Stefan, gesturing for Bruce to follow them as they made their way through the pub and then to the back stairwell. Bruce was making a mental note of everything that happened, every word that Conor said and every action that he performed, from his rough grip on Stefan’s wrist to the way he looked at Bruce from the doorway of his hotel suite, the same look that the officer often gave woman before he held them down and fucked them. 

Bruce chose to not note down the way Conor swore as Stefan rode him, Bruce and Conor kissing roughly and messily as Conor used one hand to guide Stefan’s hips and another to slowly stroke Bruce. He also chose to note the way Conor slowly fucked him once Stefan was asleep, the two of them moving tactically so that they didn’t make the bed creak and involuntarily wake up the other man. 

\---

Conor awoke the next morning with a pounding headache, still sandwiched between Stefan and Bruce who were both still asleep. He sat up and slid from beneath the covers of the single bed carefully, then stepping over Bruce and landing with a quiet thud. He looked at the two men in his bed and then smiled to himself, admiring himself in the mirror on the wall and then going through into the bathroom to shower. When he returned, towel around his hips and wet hair stuck to his face, he found Stefan gone and Bruce now sprawled out on the bed, looking up at him through his long lashes.

“Mornin’.” Bruce said with a smile, kicking the sheet off of him to try and get some fresh air on his bare body. Conor gave him a nod and then went over to the cupboard, putting on some clean briefs on and then taking off the towel, letting it drop to his feet. “I ensure you’re well?” He asked and Conor looked over at him, nodding and giving him a smile as he bent down to pick up his towel. “And that you slept well?” He questioned, eyeing up Conor’s bare figure with a smirk. 

“All’s fine.” He answered, looking over to him and then hanging his towel up in the window. He looked out and to the busy street, just spotting Stefan as he disappeared into the crowds. Conor looked around when he felt a hand on his arse, seeing Bruce stood beside him, looking out the window. “You should probably put some underpants on.” He suggested and the Scot shrugged, looking up at him with a grin.

“You mean you don’t enjoy seeing my devilishly handsome body so early in the morning?” Bruce asked, leaning against the wall and thrusting his hips forward with a grin. Conor just rolled his eyes and went to find himself a t-shirt and some shorts, leaving Bruce to chuckle to himself and get dressed again, then going into the bathroom to finish the contents of the tiny ziplock bag he had brought in the pocket of his jeans. He had gone back into the main room where Conor was still stood, looking out of the window again. Bruce was already feeling slightly uneasy in the man’s presence, but he knew that he had to keep following him and tracking him, all until they had built up a strong case and have him arrested. 

“Got any left?” Conor asked, not turning to look at his companion who had returned to his place behind the German, hand lazily running over his tanned skin. Bruce hummed a laugh and wrapped his arms around Conor’s waist, kissing the back of his neck and then looking out of the window too. “For a one night stand, you're very affectionate.” Bruce chuckled and then stood beside him, one arm still around his waist.

“Who said I was a one night stand?” He questioned with a grin. “You know, I think we've been put here together as some weird ploy to get me some more sex and you,” Bruce paused to think. “Some company.” Conor laughed at the other man’s deduction and shrugged. “You're divorced too, so we’re both very lonely men in search of companionship and a good fuck every so often.” The German looked down to his hand with a smile, the little indent that his wedding ring had caused still present. Whilst he wasn't divorced and had a wife and daughter back in Tilbury, he chose to just go along with Bruce’s observation. Bringing it up would only make things awkward.

“Very true.” Conor said, smiling at the other and then looking out of the window again, chuckling as he watched a young family try to navigate their way around a map, the eldest child pointing in one direction and the father another.

It reminded him of his holiday as a child, his parents would always take him and his brother to some part of Austria on holiday. He and Sebastian would always go off in different ways, both truly convinced that they were correct. Most of the time, Conor was right, but his parents would always go off with Sebastian because he was older and knew better, leaving little Conor wandering the snowy and unfamiliar streets on his own. Even the thought made his stomach twist into knots and skin prickle with anger and sadness.

Bruce could notice the change in Conor as the two of them looked out the window. The officer scouring the streets to see if he could see just what was making the other so upset. It was either that or something to do with his ex-wife, he was yet to decide which.

“So would you like to do this again?” Bruce asked, studying Conor’s face to see if there was any sign of a reaction. The smile told Bruce all he needed to know. 

“Oh I would love to.”

And so they did, only that evening they had gone into central Cologne for dinner (although neither of them chose to call it a date even though it clearly was) and had then returned to the pub to watch the television and have a few drinks. Bruce was now an ex-army officer rather than a sergeant in the met, and he had discovered that Conor worked as a security guard for a hardware store in Tilbury which was hardly the career that Bruce expected him to have. They both had daughters the same age and grew up as the only ‘foreign’ kid in their school. Whilst Conor doubted that Bruce could really call himself a foreigner when he was Scottish, he went along with him as it was so rare for him to find a man so similar to him. 

Conor had few friends and much preferred to keep himself to himself and look after his family instead. But there was something about Bruce that intrigued him, like he was holding something back and Conor just wanted to find out what. He decided that he wasn't going to pry so soon into their friendship and instead let it rest. He would find out eventually.

The pair went up to Conor’s room just after midnight and continued to talk until Bruce eventually fell asleep just after two. Conor covered him with the duvet and then sat by the window, looking out into the darkness and having a cigarette. Everything was so calm and peaceful, a far cry from the madness of his life back in the UK. If he were to be awake at this time in Tilbury and be in the same position, all he would see was drunks and the homeless, not empty and peaceful streets.

He turned to look back at his bed, Bruce curled up under the covers and softly breathing out little snores as he slept. He seemed so at peace and content that Conor couldn’t help but stand and watch him whilst he smoked, wondering if he looked the same whilst he slept; peaceful and worryless. He doubted it it, even when he was asleep his head was whirling with thoughts and the still constant fear that he would be torn from his bed by his father in the middle of the night. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and then let out a slow, shaky breath. He needed some fresh air, the cigarettes and the tiny room weren’t helping. Even the mere flashing thought of his childhood made his feel queasy. The good memories were so rare because they were always ruined by something, normally his father. The idea of seeing him again for the first time in almost ten years did terrify him, but he was an old man now and he knew that he would be unable to hurt him. He was only going home for his mother and to see his little sister and brother, to ensure that they were both okay.

Erik had returned home a few months before after things went horribly wrong for him and his husband; they had gotten into a car accident and Charles had passed away, Erik being left with more mental scarring that he didn’t need. He needed to spend some time with his brother who, according to his mother, hadn’t said a work in almost six weeks. Even when he had spoken at the beginning it was only please and thank yous. He emailed Erik occasionally but the replies were never very chatty and Conor was just so worried about him, in fear that he would follow the same path of depression and alcoholism that Conor had followed for many years. His brother was so dear to him and all he wished to do was protect him, something he had never been able to do when they were younger. 

On the other hand, Conor had never had much to do with his young sister. He was 18 when Aisling was born and by that time had as little to do with his family as possible. Sure, he visited her when he could, at Christmas or her birthday, but his fear of being around his parents for too long always overcame him and his visits became rarer and rarer. He hadn’t been home in three years now after getting into a fight with his parents one Christmas, ending the day in tears whilst Charles drove him to the airport. Aisling was so quiet and tiny that Conor had thought she would just disappear if he blinked, though he was unsure as to whether that would have been a big deal or not. It was pretty clear that his now elderly father was treating her just the same as he had treated himself and Erik, violently and unkindly. He wanted to scoop her up and take her back to London with him but it was just impossible to, he would never be allowed, as much as the teenager probably wanted to go with him.

Conor turned to look back at the bed where Bruce was now sat up, looking at him with tired eyes. The Scot gave him a smile and then patted the bed beside him.

“Come back to bed, you.” He said with a yawn and Conor followed his demand with a tired sigh, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray and then going over to the bed, squishing in beside Bruce and wrapping an arm around him, getting himself comfortable. “Alright?” Bruce asked him, Conor grunting in reply as he shut his eyes and buried his head into the pillow. Bruce sighed and then turned over, looking at the elder man and sighing. “Oh Conor what is it you miserable git?” He questioned, but Conor was already asleep, chest rising and falling slowly. Bruce just kissed his forehead and shut his eyes again.


End file.
